


until the road unwinds from the earth

by lightsgodown



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Human!Impala - Freeform, Ianpala | Ian Somerhalder as the Impala
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-18
Updated: 2013-07-18
Packaged: 2017-12-20 13:03:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/887597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightsgodown/pseuds/lightsgodown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So the witches take it one step too far, and now Dean is stuck with a person instead of a car, and what the fuck is he supposed to do about that?</p><p>Or the one where Dean realizes exactly what the Impala means to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	until the road unwinds from the earth

**Author's Note:**

> Several things:  
> 1) Thank you, thank you, thank you to my amazing beta [Mary Beth](http://brunettereader.tumblr.com/) for being willing to correct all my grammar issues at one o'clock in the morning. You are, as always, incredible.
> 
> 2) The title is taken from a song called Freedom, by Flyleaf. 
> 
> 3) Large chunks of dialogue are taken directly from 5x22, Swan Song, for Emotional Growth (and epic Dean/Impala bonding time) and stuff. I just want to say that I own none of that, and all the rights go to the writers and producers of the show, and disclaimer disclaimer something something you get my point.

The only thing Dean could think as he flew straight up against the splintery, half-rotted wall of the abandoned barn was he _really fucking hated witches_.

Sam was pinned to the wall opposite him, struggling to get his toes on the ground as his hands scrabbled at the invisible force holding him up by the neck. A tall blond woman stood in between the two, hands outstretched toward both of them to keep them in place while her coven streamed out through the doors in front of her.

The last witch raced out, knocking one of the huge doors behind her. When it rattled closed, Dean could no longer see the small copse of trees he’d parked the Impala in before they entered into this shitstorm of an ambush. The blond woman holding the two of them smirked at the two of them and dropped her hands. Neither of them were released from their strangleholds.

Sam’s face grew darker and darker shades of red as he struggled for breath, and Dean was helpless to stop it. He wanted to cuss this bitch out, drive a knife into her gut, and scream at her dying form until he was blue in the face.

The problem was that he was already dangerously close to blue as the magic holding him tightened around his throat. His legs gave out as his entire body lurched farther up the wall. The woman watched him with a blank face, like a teenager dozing off in class – totally uninterested. He gasped – or he tried to anyway, but instead he choked from the pressure.

“The Winchesters, I assume,” the woman said, inspecting the nails on her hand. Dean fought to keep the fuzzy black dots at the edge of his vision at bay and focus on her. His hands reached up of their own volition and wrestled whatever was holding him, but could find no purchase against it.

On the other wall, Sam gagged and dug his fingers under the force against his neck, trying desperately to find even a hint of oxygen. Dean’s entire body was boiling over with hatred. The woman didn’t seem concerned; she just flicked a finger at his brother and hauled him another inch up the wall.

“Now, I suggest you listen carefully,” she said conversationally, as though she wasn’t strangling two men twice her size at the same time. “I’m powerful – far more powerful than you idiots counted on. So is every sister in my coven. Who, incidentally, are punishing you right now for your audacity. I’m going to let you go in a minute –” something huge and heavy drove into Dean’s gut, choking him even more and snapping at least two ribs – “and you’re going to be good boys and leave us alone, you understand? Or we’ll have much worse things in mind for you.”

She walked briskly to the open door.  When she got to the threshold, she paused to swish all her hair over one shoulder and look back at them. “Bye bye, boys.”

Then she was gone, and the pressure vanished with her; Dean crumpled to the ground with a huge gasp and started coughing. He rolled to his side and hacked, sucking in great lungfuls of air. Across the dirt floor, he could hear Sam’s shuddery gasps and coughs, which gave him some small measure of comfort even as his ribs screamed their injury at him.

“Sammy,” he choked out, throwing one limp arm toward his brother. That was as much as he could do before he passed out.

~*~

“Dean,” Sam whispered, his voice raspy and painful sounding. He shook Dean’s shoulder weakly. “Dean, we gotta get out of here. Come on man, wake up.”

Dean snuffled back into consciousness, feeling like death warmed up, and coughed once. “Feels like I gargled nails,” he groaned, putting one hand gingerly over his left ribcage. He winced at the slightest touch.

Dean pulled himself up to rest on his elbows and breathed deeply for a minute. Next to him, Sam rolled over onto his back and carefully touched his abused neck.

A noise like something heavy hitting the ground caused Sam and Dean to scramble to their feet silently. Whatever – whoever – was outside let out a loud “Fuck!” Adrenaline surged through Dean’s veins. The voice was male, gravelly and irritated.

Dean glanced at Sam and flicked his head toward the door, spurring him into motion. Sam crept forward on catlike feet, approaching the opening along the closed door while Dean flanked the other side of the entrance.

Sam held up three fingers and put them down one by one, counting down as many seconds. When he dropped his index finger, Dean sprang out, gun held at chest height.

It was a man, who somehow looked both young and old at the same time. His hair was dark and messy and he was dressed entirely in black – black jeans, black tee shirt underneath a leather jacket, and boots.

He was sitting on the ground, one leg splayed out awkwardly in front of him and muttering profanities under his breath. Judging by the heavy-looking log that lay beside him on its side, he’d kicked it or run his shin into the hard wood. The guy looked up when Dean and Sam appeared, but didn’t so much as flinch at the sight of the guns.

“Dean?” he said, looking uncomfortable in his own skin. His eyes were bright blue and confused. “Sam?”

Dean raised his eyebrow at Sam, who shrugged. Without lowering his gun, Dean gruffly said, “Who are you?”

The man pushed himself to his feet unsteadily, swaying a little before finding his balance. “Uh…,” he said, staring at his hands and then down at his body. “I’m… The Impala?” he said weakly, looking up to catch Sam’s eye.

Dean scoffed. “Hilarious. Now who the hell are you?”

“Dean,” Sam said slowly as he stared at the guy. “D’you remember what the witch said?”

Dean rounded on Sam, keeping the gun pointed straight for the man’s chest. “She said something? I was being strangled, Sammy, I mean, Jesus. Do _you_ remember what she said?”

Sam lowered his gun and moved carefully around the man, who was just staring at everything like he’d been blind his entire life and could suddenly see. Sam circled around until he was standing behind him, and then walked quickly toward the thicket of trees.

“Sam?” Dean called over the little field and into the trees. “Sammy, please tell me my car is still sitting there, and this guy is some delusional son of a bitch.”

“Hey!” the man replied indignantly.

“Shut up.”

When Dean didn’t hear a reply from Sam, his stomach dropped.   _Shit._ First a coven of witches got the jump on them, and then Baby became… A guy?

Great. Awesome.

Sam trudged back through the trees and towards the barn, where Dean and the man were still standing.

“Sammy, this isn’t our car, right?” Dean asked.

Sam kept walking, ignoring Dean completely. Sam stepped forward until he was just on the edge of the guy’s personal space. “Prove it,” he said simply.

Dean let out a groan. “Friggin’ witches! Are you serious?”

“Shut up, Dean,” Sam snapped.  “Prove it,” he repeated.

The guy – Impala? – sighed and shrugged the leather jacket off his broad shoulders. Eyeing Dean’s gun when he raised it a little higher, he lifted his left arm carefully and pulled the short sleeve back.

He had a tattoo on the inside of his bicep, done in clumsy lines that looked like they’d been scraped onto his skin rather than inked. But the design was unmistakable – two sets of initials were marked there: S.W. and D.W.

Dean pressed his lips together. The gun drooped down ever so slightly. The guy grinned almost shyly at them and lowered his arm. “Your dad, John, he bought me in seventy-three, after you persuaded him to, Dean. Then in two thousand five we got in a huge crash, and you rebuilt me from the ground up.”

Sam was openly gaping. “The witches turned you human. How is that even possible?”

He shrugged. “Dude, you’re as confused as I am. One minute I was a car, and then I was waking up on the ground and tripping over logs.”

Dean let his arm drop finally, holding the gun limply at his side. His jaw worked furiously, like he was trying to chew this whole situation into something that made sense. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

The guy smirked at Dean. “Spit it out, man.”

Dean seemed to choke on his tongue for a second longer, and then he burst out with, “What the _fuck_?”

~*~

“Fucking goddamned bitches who the shit do they think they are what the FUCK.”

Okay, Dean was being maybe a little irrational when it comes to his car. He would admit that. But seriously, what kind of twisted evil skank messed with a man’s wheels?!

He stood in the copse where he’d parked Baby a few hours ago, before he knew that this entire day was going to go straight down the toilet. Sam was a few feet away, giving him space, and… _whoever_ was even further behind him.

He ran a dirty hand through his short hair, messing it up in agitation and counted to twenty slowly. When he was done, he took a deep breath and turned to face the two of them. “How do we fix this?”

Sam shrugged, clearly at a total loss. “Call Garth I guess, see if we can figure out the spell they used. Do some research.”

Dean wanted badly to punch something, but the only things in the vicinity were trees, which, _ow,_ and Sam and – “What should we call you?”

The guy looked up from his inspection of the tips of his boots, surprised that Dean was finally addressing him. His eyes were still wide and shell-shocked.

Dean forced a chuckle, tried to appear nonchalant about all this. “I mean, you’re clearly not an Impala. Gotta call you something, right?”

He nodded thoughtfully, like this problem had yet to occur to him. “I guess I’m just used to you calling me ‘baby.’”

Sam coughed, masking an involuntary laugh. Dean glowered at him for a second before saying, very pointedly, “I’m not calling you Baby, dude. Baby is my _car_.”

“Dean, I _am_ your car,” he said impatiently, raking a hand through the hair on his forehead to push it out of his eyes. “But,” he continued when Dean’s glare shifted to him, “I guess you could call me Ian? Sounds kind of like ‘Impala.’”

Dean rubbed the back of his neck and jerked his head in some manner that might have meant ‘Whatever.’

The corners of Sam’s lips twitched appreciatively. “Ian works.” He hefted his gun bag over one shoulder and started moving out of the patch of trees. “Come on, then.”

Great. Ian had legs and they all had to fucking _walk back to the motel._

Dean’s day was not going well.

~*~

They made it back to the motel an hour later, tired and cramped and sweaty. Sam immediately dropped his duffel on his bed and beelined for the shower, claiming it before Dean could get in.

Ian glanced around the room interestedly. It wasn’t much more than another crappy, cheap roof over their heads – two twin beds, creaky and covered in scratchy maroon quilts, beige walls with a strip of wallpaper from approximately 1982 along the trim at the top, one night stand with two lamps bolted to it, and one dresser. A tiny closet and a bathroom were behind the two doors on the wall opposite the entrance, and an ancient looking radiator hummed underneath the single window with drawn curtains.

That was it.

“I’ve never actually seen the rooms you two complain about so much,” Ian murmured, drinking everything in with his eyes. He took a deep breath, and then wrinkled his noise. “But I see what you mean about the smell.”

Dean couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up from his exhausted chest. “Home, crappy home.”

Ian snorted, a noise that vaguely reminded Dean of the grinding sound the Impala’s brakes had been making last month. “At least you don’t get left out in the rain. And at the mercy of pigeons.” He shuddered.

“Hey!” Dean protested. “I take good care of my c- you. I take good care of you,” he mumbled, flushing.

Ian grinned then, a half-crooked, staggeringly cocky smile that reminded Dean of his father in 1973. “I appreciate it, man.”

Dean looked away then, inspecting the blank walls and wondering vaguely if their entire arsenal from the trunk was now shoved up Ian’s ass. Sam stepped out of the bathroom, running a towel through his hair and tugging a pair of jeans on, so Dean took his turn in the shower.

The water pressure was acceptable at best, but the warmth of it soothed his tense muscles anyway as he leaned his head forward and let it run down his back.

It wasn’t the strangeness of the whole situation that was upsetting Dean so much. Weirder stuff had happened – like getting stage four stomach cancer for two minutes, courtesy of an archangel. _That_ was weird.

Maybe the fact that the hunt had gone downhill so fast was part of the problem. They’d been totally unprepared for the strength of the coven; it had never occurred to him that some chicks out for blood could overpower him and Sam so easily. Images of Sam’s purpling face as the life was drained out of him slowly swam behind Dean’s closed eyes. He scrunched them more tightly shut and pushed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets until the pictures burst open into fireworks of dots.

Yeah, leading Sam so close to death (again) freaked Dean out. It always did. On top of that, then, was the fact that his car was suddenly walking and talking and making snarky comments. Like, who the fuck even thought of this kind of crazy?

He shut the water off and used an over-bleached towel to dry off, zipping up a fresh(ish) pair of jeans before padding back out into the main room. Sam and Ian were sitting on the beds, facing each other. Sam’s back was to Dean and neither of them were speaking, but some great and apparently heavy emotion shone in Ian’s eyes.

Dean cleared his throat, making Sam jump. “Hey, uh, Ian. Shower’s open if you want it.”

Ian looked over Sam’s shoulder at Dean and cleared his throat thickly. “Um. Yeah. Okay. I’ll. Yeah.” A joint popped in his hip as he stood up, and he threw an alarmed stare at Dean, who snickered.

“Relax, old man. You’re, like, forty, aren’t you?”

Ian’s concern evaporated almost at once. “Still gorgeous, baby,” he said with a wink, and skipped off to the bathroom.

~*~

It had been three days since Ian showed up and Baby disappeared, and Dean was maybe starting to lose it a little.  For one thing, they were stuck in their crappy motel room until they figured this out, and for another, he had to walk everywhere he wanted to go. Which mostly consisted of a greasy diner down the road, the blonde witch’s house, and the dinky public library the city had to offer.

Not that those three days hadn’t had their moments. The first night with Ian, Dean coerced Sam into going to a bar and getting their car absolutely hammered. Not that it had been hard; guy was a lightweight. So it had been hilarious, watching poor Ian, who barely knew how to walk as it was and never stopped complaining about how irritating legs were, stumble around the bar and laugh until he cried at some dumb joke Dean had cracked.

It wasn’t as much fun the next day when Dean woke up to the sound of Ian retching into the toilet and the smell of vomit. Ian, it turned out, did not handle hangovers well. Since then, Dean had kind of been avoiding his car-turned-man, choosing instead to bury himself in books in the hidden cellar of the missing witch’s house, looking for anything that might help them.

Dean threw a little spell book away from him in irritation after it proved entirely unhelpful. Scrubbing his hands over his eyes, he let out a long, slow breath and tried not to freak the fuck out. This was getting ridiculous.

His phone rang, Sam’s ringtone. He flipped it open. “What’s up?”

“Maybe we should call Cas,” Sam said without preamble, sounding just as tired as Dean felt. “I mean, what if he can just zap Ian back to normal and we don’t need some spell?”

Dean snorted. “When has that ever worked, Sammy?”

“I know, I know. I’m just… The library’s not helping at all,” his brother irritably. It was probably a personal offense that a library had failed him. “And I’m sick of that stupid motel. There’s a broken spring on my mattress, and it digs into my back no matter what, and the food here sucks, and I just –“

“Dude,” Dean cut him off. “Don’t start PMSing everywhere.”

“Ha, ha,” Sam snapped. “Look, I’m just saying, maybe Cas could help.”

“Okay, okay, we can call him,” Dean said, standing up and stretching his back out from its cramped position. “Meet you back at the room?”

“Yeah.”

“Where’s… Ian?” Dean asked, still uncomfortable thinking of his car and this guy being the same… thing? Person?

“I left him at the motel. He likes research almost as much as you,” said Sam.

Dean huffed out a chuckle. “Sorry my car doesn’t like reading ancient Latin, man.”

“Whatever,” Sam laughed. “Bring Cas when you get back.”

Dean nodded and hung up, carefully rearranging the books exactly as they’d been when he got there.

~*~

“I don’t understand,” Cas said, huffing in annoyance at the heat and shucking the trench coat off his shoulders as they walked. “How has your car been transformed?”

Dean did his best to relax his tensed shoulder muscles, rolling them and shaking his arms loosely. It didn’t work very well. “I don’t know, dude, some witches with big guns caught us off-guard, and now I’ve got this walking, talking, snarky dude on my ass 24/7.”

The corner of Cas’s mouth twitched upwards just slightly. “I imagine your car would mirror your behavior after so many years of being yours, Dean,” he said gently.

Dean inspected the sidewalk they trudged over. “Yeah, well, it’s weird,” he mumbled. They reached the motel room in silence, Dean unlocking it and sweeping Cas inside with a grand arm gesture. “Ian,” he said, tipping his head toward the angel, “This is Castiel. Cas, meet my car. Goes by Ian.”

Ian stood up from the bed he’d been sitting on, brushing his palms nervously across his jeans. “Cas,” he said slowly, holding one hand out for Castiel to shake. They did, and then Ian looked at Dean. “This is weird, man. I know all of you already.”

Dean shifted his weight. “I know, man. I just…”

“You find it strange to be introduced to people with whom you are familiar as though you have not ever met them,” Cas stated, inspecting Ian with the kind of scrutiny that always made Dean feel like he was naked in a spotlight.

Ian seemed to feel the same - unsure what to do with his hands, he stuffed them deep in his pockets and then pulled them out to cross his arms over his chest.

Cas drifted closer to Ian, still staring at him. Ian looked like he was going to bolt any second. “Um…”

“Cas,” Dean said quietly. Castiel snapped out of his reverie, meeting Dean’s warning look with an even stare.

“I believe I will be able to help you,” Cas said to Ian casually, as though the past fifteen seconds hadn’t been extremely awkward. “But it will take me some time to find the proper spell. I’m sure it’s in Heaven’s libraries.” Feathers and cloth rustled, and Cas zapped out of existence.

Ian stared at the spot where he disappeared, open-mouthed. “Man, I know you told me he had a thing with staring, but that was…”

Dean laughed and clapped Ian on the back. “Uncomfortable? Welcome to my world, dude. Good news is, we’re gonna fix you.”

Sam entered then, carrying his laptop under his arm and takeout in a bag. Dean dove for the food, crowing praise when he pulled Mexican out – honest to God _Mexican_ – and started stuffing his face immediately.

He didn’t notice the tiny drop in Ian’s shoulders, or how it took him a few seconds longer than the brothers to start eating.

~*~

“Cas has a fix-all?” Sam asked over the top of a sketchy-looking book in the witch’s cellar.

Dean shrugged and flipped a page in his own volume. “That’s what he said. Guess he’s gotta find it, though. Heaven must have a pretty massive library – it’s been two _days_.”

Sam stretched his legs out in front of him as he sank to the floor, crossing them at the ankle and settling his book in his lap. “Guess so.”

The worked in silence for a few minutes, except Dean couldn’t really concentrate on the cramped writing on the page in front of him. His thoughts kept wandering back to the motel room, where they’d left Ian when he refused to get out of bed.

The guy seemed… off. He’d only been human for a week, but Dean was already figuring out all his mannerisms and tells. “Sam?”

Sam grunted, squinting at his book.

“D’you…” Dean squirmed. “Have you noticed anything weird about Ian?”

Sam looked up. “Other than the fact that he has arms and legs instead of wheels and an engine?”

Dean chucked a candle at his brother. “Yes, idiot. I mean he just seems… I don’t know. Sad.”

Sam flipped his book shut and tossed it in the reject pile. “I don’t know, dude, he’s a car. He isn’t even supposed to have emotions.” He picked up another book and buried his nose in it, ending the conversation there.

Dean knew objectively that cars were just things and things didn’t have emotions, but he’d never been able to accept that about his baby. His car wasn’t just a _thing_ to him – it was home. Always had been. And ever since he was eighteen and it was officially _his car,_ Dean had done his best to be good to it, to take care of it and make sure nothing happened to it. Because that’s what you did with stuff you loved.

But that wasn’t what you did with _people_ you loved. At least, that wasn’t all of it. Maybe it was time Dean stopped treating Ian like a car and more like a person.

~*~

Sam and Dean made it back to the motel around six o’clock. Ian was exactly where they’d left him, planted in an uncomfortable wooden chair in front of the TV, watching a daytime soap opera with glazed eyes. He looked up when they opened the door, shoulders perking up hopefully.

Dean shook his head once and gave an apologetic grimace. Ian’s shoulders dropped and he sank another inch or two into the chair. 

Sam caught the look, too. “Ian,” he said gently, “we’re going to figure this out.”

Ian waved his hand. “I know, I know. It’s just a matter of time.” He stretched his legs out in front of him and pointed his toes before letting the tension snap. “I hate these things,” he mumbled. “I miss wheels.”

Sam and Dean glanced at each other, unsure what to say to that. Sam cleared his throat after a second, announced that he was going to go find food somewhere, and turned on his heel to leave the room again.

This left Dean and Ian alone in a silent room, except for the quiet sounds of a woman sobbing over some guy’s body. Ian gestured at the TV haplessly. “ _Suicidio_ ,” he said, forcing a weak half-grin.

Dean smirked. “Seen it,” he said.

Ian snorted. “Of course you have.”

“There wasn’t a whole lot else to do with that broken leg!” Dean protested.

“I remember that,” Ian said, his face sobering. “You couldn’t drive for a month.”

Dean sat on the corner of a bed, giving Ian some space but still close to him. “How do you know all this stuff, man?” he asked. “I mean, you didn’t have a brain until last week.”

Ian shrugged and muted the TV, turning in the chair to face Dean. “Do you know how you know everything, Dean?” Grinning a little at the look on Dean’s face, Ian kept talking. “I know my life in much the same way you know yours, I bet. It’s just… mine. I don’t remember everything – my first memories start around ’71, but they’re just blurs mostly. But I remember the important stuff.” Ian looked away, eyes bright.

Dean found that he had no words for this situation. He opened his mouth a few times, but always decided against the clumsy words on his tongue.

Ian broke the silence again. “I remember the day your dad bought me, and the day you and Sam scratched your initials in.” He rubbed his tattooed bicep absently. “And I remember the day we went to that old boneyard where Sam –“ he stopped abruptly, coughed once, and looked down at his hand. “I remember after that, too. Just driving and driving for days.”

Dean swallowed through a tight throat. “Ian…” He took a deep breath and looked up at Dean. “Look, man. We don’t have to…” He didn’t finish.

Ian shook his head. “No, I want to. I’m the only one you always talk to, right?”

It wasn’t untrue. There had been countless nights where Dean sat in Baby’s front seat and just talked, unloading everything he couldn’t say to Sam or Cas, just because talking helped. Even when he’d lived with Lisa and the Impala spent a year under a tarp, his car had always been his safe place when the nightmares got too real. Dean looked down at his hands as Ian kept talking.

“I like it, you know. Being the one you can always come back to. And I like knowing you. I probably know you almost as well as Sam does.” Dean shook his head slowly, still staring at his hands. Ian paused. “Better, maybe, if you tell me more than you tell Sam.”

Dean inhaled and looked up sharply at Ian, opening his mouth to say something, but Ian held up a hand reassuringly.

“Relax, I haven’t told Sam anything.” Relief crashed over Dean as he let out his breath slowly. “Sam talks to me too,” Ian said after a moment, almost as an afterthought. “Not as often anymore, but when you were in hell, and purgatory, he used to talk to me all the time while he drove.”

Dean didn’t dare ask what Sam would say – not that Ian would have told him, anyway – so he stayed quiet, knotting and unknotting his fingers repeatedly.

“I guess I just miss it,” Ian said quietly after a while.

Dean raised his head. “Miss what?”

Ian met his gaze. “Being home to the Winchesters.”

~*~

Dean sat on the floor later that night, his back pressed against Sam’s bed and laptop on his knees. Ian and Sam were both asleep in their beds, Dean having drawn the short stick for who slept on the floor, which proved entirely too hard to sleep on. So he was aimlessly clicking around on the Internet, not really doing anything, just passing time.

Ian’s words from earlier kept coming back into Dean’s thoughts, coupled with a nagging urge to _do something_ , to fix the whole situation or at least make it better somehow. Ian obviously felt useless and like he couldn’t do anything, and while that was technically true – a car was no hunter, after all – Dean still didn’t like it.

He found himself on the Moondoor home page, which still featured a large portrait of Charlie’s face as Queen. Dean smiled and clicked around that website, thinking he saw the appeal Charlie felt in playing it – it looked fun.

An idea hit him. Charlie…

He stood up as quickly as he could and stepped outside, pulling his phone out of his pocket and dialing.

“Dude, the world had better be imploding. Either that, or you found another hot fairy for me,” said Charlie’s grumpy voice, thick with sleep.

Dean grinned widely. “Sorry to interrupt your beauty sleep, Majesty.”

Charlie huffed a breathy laugh. “What’s up, Dean-o?”

“You said all the _Supernatural_ books are online, right?”

“Yeah,” she drawled, sounding suspicious. “Why?”

“Do they ever talk about the Impala at all?”

Charlie paused for a second. When she spoke again, her voice was piqued with interest. “Yeah, in _Swan Song_ , when Sam said yes to the Big Kahuna downstairs.”

Dean winced, but plowed on. “I’m gonna need you to email me everything Chuck said about the car in that book. ASAP.”

~*~

Dean ran his fingers around the rim of his paper coffee cup and shuffled through the papers spread out before him. For once it was him rather than Sam in the library – by choice, and early, too. The only people around him were a couple librarians and some sleepy-looking college kids. Dean didn’t mind the quiet; it gave him space to think as he stared at the pages in front of him.

True to form, Charlie had emailed him everything Chuck Shurley wrote about the Impala almost as soon as he’d hung up the night before. And there was a _lot._

Granted, not all of it was relevant. There were several pages recounting all the times Dean had rebuilt it from the bottom up, including after the accident that nearly killed Dean and led to John’s death, and after Crowley’s demons flipped it and busted the frame. And none of that really mattered for Dean’s purposes.

But the book Charlie mentioned, _Swan Song_ , contained several passages that currently held Dean’s attention. Chuck centered the entire novel on the Impala, always coming back to it to tie the entire story together. He wrote about the history of the car, things Dean had never known (though he couldn’t hold back a snort of amusement when he reached a line about how he and Sam didn’t know any of the car’s history – proving Chuck wrong was just plain fun) and things he had never even thought about, like who owned the car before John.

It was a little emotional to read, if he were being completely honest with himself. Which is why Dean was glad he’d had the forethought to make this trip to the library without Sam or Ian.

Who, now that he thought about it, were probably wondering where the hell he was.

Dean shuffled the papers into two piles and dumped the larger one into the trash on his way out, taking a long drink from his lukewarm coffee.

~*~

Cas was there when Dean strolled back into the motel room, explaining something to Sam and Ian. He turned when the door opened and greeted Dean with, “I found the spell.”

Dean stopped in his tracks while his brain caught up. _Cas. Looking for a spell. Big-as-fuck library in Heaven. Right._ He cleared his throat. “Right. That’s, uh. That’s great, Cas. Thanks.”

Castiel nodded curtly. “We have to go back to the place where the witches transformed your car in the first place in order for it to work.”

Sam shot a sidelong glance between Cas and Ian, who stood awkwardly in the back of the room with his chin tucked into his chest. Dean was acutely aware of the tension radiating off him. He caught his brother’s attention, but Sam only looked as lost as Dean felt and shrugged.

Dean slipped his hand into his jacket and touched the folded papers there. He tried to catch Ian’s eye, but the other man wouldn’t look at him. He gave up when Cas moved impatiently to the door and gestured for them all to follow.

“C’mon, Ian, let’s go fix you up,” Sam said weakly, nodding him toward the door after Cas. Dean was the last to leave, still wondering what had happened.

~*~

They arrived at the abandoned barn an hour later, sweaty and tired. Dean wiped beads of sweat from his eyes and winced in sympathy when he caught a glimpse of Ian, covered head to toe in black. The poor guy looked like he was about to pass out, so Dean tossed him a water bottle. Ian downed it in one go.

Castiel didn’t pause as they marched toward the barn – he just kept going, pulling a door open and moving inside with purpose. He called for Sam’s help setting up the spell, so Sam ducked inside as well.

Ian paused just outside, and God help the poor guy, he looked like his nerves were frayed raw. Dean hesitated for a second, weighing the situation, and then clapped his hand on Ian’s shoulder.

“Ready to be you again, man?” he asked, going for a lighter tone.

Ian nodded sullenly, and fuck him, Dean couldn’t take the moping anymore. He pulled the other man close and crushed his arms around him, refusing to move until Ian returned the hug. He did so after a couple seconds, tightening his arms around Dean’s sore ribs and burying his face in Dean’s shirt.

“Hey, Ian,” Dean said awkwardly, doing his best to ignore the way Ian’s breath was stuttering and his chest was shaking. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s been a really, really fucking long week,” Ian mumbled, puling away from Dean and turning his back to wipe at his eyes. He took a deep breath quickly and swung around to face Dean again. “Anyway, let’s get back to normal already.”

Dean stopped him before he could take more than one step toward the inside of the barn, where he could hear Sam and Cas setting up whatever it was Cas needed. “Did something happen, dude?”

Ian’s shoulders tightened up. He looked at Dean over his shoulder. “You should ask Cas what he talks to me about.”

He went into the barn then, leaving Dean to his spinning thoughts.

~*~

The spell, it turned out, was relatively simple to reverse. Ten minutes, a couple drops of Dean’s blood, and some Enochian mumbo-jumbo from Cas, and Ian was back to his sleek, metal glory.

Cas left almost as soon as the spell was complete, barely staying long enough to make sure that it worked and for Sam to thank him before he left in a flutter of cloth and wings. Sam was poking around in the trunk, doing a quick inventory on their arsenal to make sure nothing was lost or broken. (Seriously, where had all that stuff gone?)

Dean, meanwhile, was just sitting behind the Impala’s wheel, stroking the leather seats and breathing in the old smell of motor oil and dried blood. It smelled like comfort to Dean, like home and familiarity.

Ian had only existed for a week, and already something felt different to Dean about his car. Not bad, necessarily, but just… different. Never had he been careless with the Impala; Dean was always anal about taking care of it and keeping it running well. But now it was about more than just keeping the engine well-oiled – now it was something even deeper.

Sam climbed into the passenger seat then, slamming the door with an old, well-known squeak. “Everything’s still right where we left it,” he said simply.

Dean nodded and quirked a half-grin at his brother. “Where do you suppose all that stuff was all week?” Sam shrugged. “Cause remember that one time when Gabriel turned you into the car and I went to get something from the trunk and –“

“Dean!” Sam looked horrified by the memory. Dean threw his head back and laughed long and hard for the first time in a week. “Come on, man, that’s nasty.”

“Oh, it’s good to have you back, Baby,” Dean said warmly, turning the key in the ignition and cranking the tape player up high.

~*~

They were an hour into the drive back to the bunker before Dean remembered the first night Ian had been human. “Hey, Sam?” he asked, glancing to the passenger seat. Sam turned and raised an eyebrow. “The first night Ian was a person,” Dean said, looking back at the road. “What were you guys talking about when I got out of the shower?”

Sam chuckled a little, surprised. “I didn’t think you’d remember that.”

“Dude, that night was so weird. I remember, like, everything.”

Sam got quiet. For a while, the only sound was the engine’s purr as it soared across empty freeway. _Damn_ , he’d missed this.

“Last year,” Sam finally said, “was… Hard. To say the least. I didn’t really… I don’t know. I didn’t settle anywhere for a long time after you and Cas disappeared. I just drove and drove and drove. Like, I couldn’t even stop in a motel for a night. I just bought food on the go, filled the Impala up when it got low, and kept driving. I couldn’t sit still.”

Dean tightened his grip on the wheel slightly. He could never act like hearing about Sam in pain was something he handled well.

Sam kept talking. “From the time you left to the time I hit that dog, I never stopped for more than a few hours at a time. I slept in the Impala, I ate every meal in here, and I only got out when I needed gas or a leak. It just… It was the only thing familiar, the only thing I had left, you know? And I couldn’t leave that. So I didn’t.”

“Sam,” Dean said warningly.

His brother held up a hand. “Hey, you asked.”

Fair enough. Dean jerked his head, and Sam kept going. “So eventually I just came to think of this car as my whole world. It was… _home_. It was the closest thing I could get to you.”

Well, fuck. Maybe he’d been too hard on his little brother when he got back. “I’m sorry, Sam,” he said lowly, unsure what else to do. “I’m sorry you were all alone.”

Sam waved a hand, clearly uncomfortable. “You’re back now. Cas is back now. It’s done. I just had to tell Ian that while I could.”

“You made my car cry,” Dean cracked, desperate to relieve some of the seriousness in the atmosphere. It worked – Sam laughed long and hard.

They drove the rest of the way in relative silence, content that things were back to how they were supposed to be. Dean thought about two things on the way: One, when did Sam get so grown-up and good with words (see also: in touch with his feelings, aka girly), and two, why couldn’t he do the same thing?

~*~

Six hours and several hundred miles later, they pulled up to the bunker and stumbled out to stretch their sore legs. Sam visibly crumbled when they walked up to the door, collapsing almost immediately into his bed and mumbling something about not waking up for at least two days. Dean brought some stuff inside, dropped a bag of laundry by the washing machine, and made a hot cup of tea, which he placed on Sam’s bedside table.

He wandered back outside and sat on the Impala’s hood for a while, leaning against the windshield and watching the stars pass by. It was a quiet, clear night; the kind where it seemed almost possible that the world wasn’t falling to shit every second Dean didn’t spend hunting evil stuff.

Yeah, he decided, the world could survive all by itself for one more night. Dean reached into his jacket and pulled out the pages from earlier, smoothing them out and squinting at the type in the dim, silvery light of the moon.

“Okay,” he murmured, clearing his throat once. “I know I said we didn’t have to do this the other night. But I thought about it, and maybe you’re right. Maybe,” Dean shifted his weight, paused for a second to think; “maybe you do know me better than anyone.

“So I decided it was my turn to figure out who you are. You remember Chuck, right? The prophet? Been MIA for years now?” Dean chuckled. “Yeah, I’m sure you remember him. Me and Sam must have spent hours bitching about those damn books.”

A breeze ruffled past gently. Somewhere in the woods in front of him, an owl or something took off with a screech. “Well, we’re not the only ones he ever wrote about. Said some stuff about you too, Baby. Or Ian.” Dean paused and scratched his chin. “I don’t actually know what to call you anymore, dude. Anyway, he wrote some stuff about you a few years ago. I thought maybe you would want to hear it.”

Dean pulled a little flashlight out of his pocket, giving up on the whole moonlight thing, and shined it on the first page. He cleared his throat again, suddenly hyper-aware of what he was doing and how ridiculous it was. He was reading about his own car… _to his car_. Dean Winchester had done some weird shit in his life, but this might just make the Top 5 Moments list.

But still. This was Baby. Ian. This car was a person, just like he was. And after everything he’d been through with Dean, he deserved this moment. So Dean started to read.

“On April 21, 1967, the 100 millionth GM vehicle rolled off the line at the plant in Janesville - a blue two-door Caprice.

“There was a big ceremony, speeches. The lieutenant governor even showed up. Three days later, another car rolled off that same line. No one gave two craps about her. But they should have, because this 1967 Chevrolet Impala would turn out to be the most important car -- no, the most important _object_ \-- in pretty much the whole universe.

“She was first owned by Sal Moriarty, an alcoholic with two ex-wives and three blocked arteries. On weekends, he'd drive around giving Bibles to the poor "gettin' folks right for Judgment Day." That's what he said. Sam and Dean don't know any of this, but if they did, I bet they'd smile.”

When Dean was in middle school and they read aloud in class, he would always cringe when it came to be his turn. He never told Sam about how he used to stutter when he read unfamiliar words out loud – it was something he was never okay with about himself.  It was easier when he got to high school – he could just sit in the back of the classroom and slouch over and say “pass” and be an asshole about it until his teachers got the idea and left him alone.

It had been years, then, since he read anything out loud except the old exorcism he need backwards and forwards and never dared mispronounce. He’d pored over the words that day in the library, reading them over and over and over again, partly because it was sort of fascinating to learn all about his beloved Impala, but also because he didn’t want to fuck this moment up. It was surprisingly easy now, once he got going, to just let the words roll off his tongue and into the car’s heart. A smile played at the corner of his lips while he kept reading.

“After Sal died, she ended up at Rainbow Motors, a used-car lot in Lawrence, where a young marine bought her on impulse. That is, after a little advice from a friend. I guess that's where this story begins.”

Dean looked up from the pages then, stared at the moon, and told the Impala the story it already knew, about how he learned to let Sammy grow up and make his own choices, and about how those choices led him straight into the Cage, and how that tore Dean apart from the inside out.

“But it’s not just the worst day of my life, you know?” Dean said quietly, playing with the corner of a page. “It was also the day when I was most proud of my little brother. I mean, for all the mistakes that kid’s made, he’s also one of the bravest guys I know. He sacrificed himself to save the entire freaking _planet_ , and he did it when nobody thought he’d pull it off.” He paused and swallowed hard. “Anyway, I’m proud of my little brother. But this isn’t about me and Sammy right now, Chuck wrote lots about you, listen…

“The Impala, of course, has all the things other cars have... and a few things they don't. But none of that stuff's important. This is the stuff that's important. The army man that Sam crammed in the ashtray - it's still stuck there. The Legos that Dean shoved into the vents - to this day, heat comes on and they can hear 'em rattle. These are the things that make the car theirs - really theirs. Even when Dean rebuilt her from the ground up, he made sure all these little things stayed, 'cause it's the blemishes that make her beautiful.”

Dean rolled off the hood and wandered around to the back seat to peer into the ashtray. There was the little army guy, just a shadowy lump in the night, but there nonetheless. Yeah, it was creepy how Chuck knew everything he did and why he did it, but right now, Dean kind of appreciated it. He knew the Impala could hear him. He stroked the shiny black varnish and moved to sit in the driver’s seat.

“In between jobs, Sam and Dean would sometimes get a day -- sometimes a week, if they were lucky.” Dean skipped over a couple lines, eyes glazed over a little. “They could go anywhere and do anything. They drove a thousand miles for an Ozzy show, two days for a Jayhawks game. And when it was clear, they'd park her in the middle of nowhere, sit on the hood, and watch the stars... for hours... without saying a word. It never occurred to them that, sure, maybe they never really had a roof and four walls, but they were never, in fact, homeless.”

And…. That was it, wasn’t it? Yeah, Sam and Dean grew up in crappy motel rooms and lived off cheap fast food most of their life. They never really had a house per se, or a white picket fence or a dog, but they never needed any of that stuff. All they needed was a road, a tank of gas, and each other.

Dean lay down on the worn leather bench seat in the front of the car and stared at the ceiling for a long time, just letting the realization hit him over and over again. Ian, apparently, already knew this, but as per usual Dean was slow on the pick up.

Home. He was home. And it was so, so good.

“Look, man,” he said eventually, barely even whispering at this point, but heard nonetheless. “I could sit here and tell you everything I’m just now figuring out, and we could be all sappy and stupid. But Chuck already said it all. So… thanks, Ian. For being home.”

Dean still felt a little dumb as the words fell from his mouth, but then again, he always felt a little dumb expressing himself. He pushed past it and sat up slowly, using the steering wheel to haul himself up. Fatigue was finally starting to set in, deep in his bones, and he thought longingly of the memory foam mattress waiting for him inside. There was one more thing he needed to take care of, though.

Ian’s last words to him burned a hole in his skull - _You should ask Cas what he talks to me about_. So he climbed out of the car and sat on the hood once more.

“Cas, buddy, you got your ears on? I, uh… I’d like a word, if you’re not, y’know, busy with Heaven stuff…”

Dean didn’t have to wait for more than a few seconds before Cas flapped down to meet him at the car, his wings shooting a gust of cool night air toward Dean as he landed in front of Dean and his car.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel said simply. Some of the stress from earlier seemed to have dissipated in the intervening hours. Dean regarded the angel for a while, just watching his subtle body language as it shifted from on-guard and ready to fight to something a little easier, a little more relaxed.

“You said you wanted to speak?” Castiel said, jolting Dean out of his train of thought.

“Yeah.” Dean slid to the side and gestured for Cas to sit next to him on the hood. He did so after a second’s hesitation.

“What’s on your mind, Dean?”

Dean took a breath, and then another. “Right before we turned Ian back into the car, he said something to me that I thought was… strange.”

Cas cocked his head to the side, a trademark move of confusion.

“He told me… that I should ask you what you talk to him about,” Dean said, letting out his breath in one big gust at the end of the sentence. There. It was out there. He stared forward, determinedly avoiding Castiel’s look.

The angel didn’t say anything for a few minutes, but Dean never felt his gaze shift from the side of his face. He never would get used to Cas’s endless staring.

“I imagine,” Cas said finally, “I speak of much the same things that you and Sam do. I tell the Impala what is on my mind. I find it’s a strange sort of comfort, to just sit in the back seat and talk.”

Okay, but why would Ian want Dean to know that? Dean shot Cas a glance. He was staring at his hands, folded in his lap, pressing the tips of his fingers into the back of his hands.

Cas opened his mouth again, like he knew exactly what Dean was thinking. “But I am sure that’s not truly what he meant when he told you to ask me that.”

Dean waited for Cas to keep talking, but he seemed to be struggling to string his words together satisfactorily. So Dean sat in silence and just waited.

“I… I want many things, Dean. I want to know where my Father has been all these years, and why he doesn’t come back to help us. I want the world to be at peace, for you and your brother and all those like you to be able to choose the life you want instead of incessantly battling an evil than cannot be squandered. I want a cheeseburger,” he added sheepishly. A laugh ripped through Dean’s chest, caught off-guard by such a simple desire.

Cas continued. “But what I want more than anything, and what I believe Ian was referring to, is to have a home somewhere.” He held up a finger when Dean opened his mouth to say something, indicating silently to let him finish. Dean obeyed.

“For a long time now, I have not felt like I truly belong in Heaven. I certainly did not belong in Purgatory. But I also do not think I quite belong here, on Earth. I think you know what that feels like.” Dean nodded. “I quite envy what you and Sam have,” Cas confessed. “The Impala has always been there when you needed it. I… have never had anything quite like that.”

Cas seemed to run out of words then, because he looked back down at his hands and fell silent. Dean, meanwhile, was brimming with thoughts flying in all directions at once. It took him a few moments to wrangle them and nail a few down into something coherent, but that was the nice thing about Cas – he was okay with waiting.

“Cas,” Dean said, and then choked on something warm and heavy sitting in his throat. He stopped, swallowed a couple times, and blinked. “Cas, man, I thought you knew.”

Cas looked at Dean, squinted in the negligible light. “Knew what?”

Dean stood up, dragging Cas with him. He turned Cas’s body to face the car, made him look at it for a second, and then pulled him back around so they stood face-to-face.

“This. Right here. This car. The bunker. Sam. _Me._ We’re your home, Cas. You belong here. You’re family.”

Dean wasn’t fluent in Cas the same way he was fluent in reading Sam, but he was pretty damn sure that Cas smiled with his whole body. Dean pulled his lips up into a little returning smile.

“Family, Cas. Family means you’re home, so long as you’re right here. You know that, right?”

Cas looked at Dean with such an open, childlike sense of wonder that Dean wondered for the bajillionth time just what being an angel was really like, if it didn’t at least include family, didn’t have _home_.

“I’m beginning to, I believe. Thank you, Dean.”

Dean clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go inside before Sam wakes up and flips his shit.”

His car turning into a human was maybe one of the weirdest things that had ever happened to Dean. But in hindsight, as Cas followed one step behind Dean all the way inside and he knew Sam was finally getting a good night’s sleep, he decided it was also probably one of the greatest.

 


End file.
